The Truth Beneath The Rose
by EventidexIlluminations
Summary: Why could he not stop? Why did no one see through his excuses? Someone, someone has to see. Someone, anyone, has to help before his nation begins to suffer for his actions.
1. Cyclical

A/N: This… this is really out of the blue. Most of my writing seems to start off really depressing, my goodness. Maybe this will go somewhere, maybe it will not and I will take it down. It all depends on feedback I get, I suppose. The title comes from a song by Within Temptation that I was listening to in the time that I was writing this.

Warnings: Mention of eating disorders and very minor crude language.

—•—•—

It was horrid.

He _hated_ it.

Every morsel that touched his lips, it was horrendous. Undercooked, overcooked, disgustingly raw, burnt, every possible thing that could go wrong was wrong with it. To him, it was all done wrong; there was always something he could point out wrong with his cooking, no matter what others said. They were all lying, lying to make him feel better. Of course it was not good, the smiles he was given were too sugary and sweet, like the pastries he failed at making. There was so much sugar to distract from the horrible texture, the kind that made one sick. Just like his failed attempts at baking, they were failures to make him feel good about his abilities. Those compliments were rehearsed, he just knew they were.

They were all so very _fake_.

And when it was another's cooking, he simply could not consume it. He would spend seconds, minutes, hours, even days, refusing to eat other's food. "No thank you, I just ate," was always his excuse. Or that he did not feel well or some rubbish that, honestly, sounded downright foolish to him. Yet some people believed him and took his phony excuses. Poor chaps, they had no idea that he was lying between his teeth, did they? Oh no, they must not know, or it would throw him off balance. And balance always had to be kept or else everything would go wrong and if everything were to go wrong, then he may as well just throw in the towel there, for it would be proven he was a failure.

Then there were others who would not piss off unless he ate something, anything, in front of them. Why, he had no idea. But sometimes, he wanted to bludgeon those chavs because he _already had enough._ They never understood though, they always had him eat and eat and eat and eat and _eat_. And by the gods, he hated it so much, the feeling it left him with. He would start up conversation as he ate, hopefully to distract them and so he could rid of the food some other way. Maybe drop some by "accident" and pick it up later or stuff it into napkins they so foolishly provided him. Well, foolish if their intention was for him to eat; he felt rather grateful the napkins were there, to help him. Even pushing the food around on the plate would suffice, for it then seemed like he ate more than he truly had and he would only have to actually eat a little bit to make it seem as though he had a fill deemed suitable for them. There were many times he was lucky, that he got off with only eating a small amount.

In any case, the feeling stayed.

Just as it was now.

A ghastly swelling that began the moment the food was bitten into, when he broke it down bite after bite after bite after bite after bite and then swallowed. With the second forkful, the swelling mockingly travelled to his stomach, causing a hand to reach towards his abdominal area and rest there. But it never was in one place, no, for this feeling was a cruel one and could never be satisfied until it wore him down to the bone. His oesophagus, it felt irritated, every swallow of saliva was much too difficult and he thought he might asphyxiate. And whenever he ate, he felt a warmth crawl up to his eyes, prickling and insistent. Never did he allow it to be seen, no. That was always an urge to let that salty substance spill, along with letting the food taken in being pushed back up even after being painfully forced it down by him. Forcing and assertive, though he should be able to do such naturally, should he not? He should permit it travel down, that bothersome and prickly sustenance, always bothering and disturbing; the slimy and dry, the rough and smooth. Yes, it should go down that repulsive tract, delving deeper and deeper whilst that feeling rose and rose—

Enough.

Enough, enough, enough.

_Enough!_

The nagging was too much, the feeling was overbearing and his muscles were forcing it all to come back, lest he wish his insides to feel as though they were being clawed at, raked down little by little, strip by strip. A trip to the lavatory, a wash of his hands and then to the porcelain bowl, it was so routine. All that was needed was to position himself over that bowl, open his mouth and feel the contents churn around before coming back out. Stomach gurgling, a wheeze, a horrible noise, the pungent taste of digested food—maybe bile was in there too, if it was one of those days were the contents purged were the first things eaten in awhile—and the sound of it splashing into the bowl. Tears building up, saliva dripping out of his mouth, a queer noise left him as he wiped away the saliva and straighten up, flushing away that shame.

Again.

Again, and again, and again, and _again_.

It had to _go away._

Now it was time for another wash of his hands. And another and another and another and another until his skin was red and the rough, peeling areas of his middle and pointer fingers were abused to the degree that the living skin cells decided to have the fallen cells peel off of the appendages and end their misery, crying tears of scarlet for the loss of their comrades. Blisters from his overworking hands nearly burst from his constant washing and short fingernails scraping against his skin. Toothpaste set on the bristles of his toothbrush, the item was stuck in his mouth and furiously was his mouth cleansed of the remnants of his humiliation. When spitting it out, he saw red and stared in delight. Blood, blood meant that it was all gone, his deed was wiped away. Gargling and rinsing his mouth, it was all done.

**Beep.**

A notification from his mobile phone and he decided to wash his hands once more, which turned out to be twice, then thrice, then quadruple, then quintuple the times intended. Towel discarded after drying his hands, he reached for the device that was blasting music. This music was, of course, to cover the sounds of him retching. There was no one in his abode, never really any visitors; however, it was simply a precaution.

"**Want to go out to eat?"**

Seeing the message, what he had just done registered in his head and he could not help it. The tears leaked out as he sat on the edge of the bathtub. His head bowed down, cradled in-between his lap as his hands wrapped around his head tightly. Breathing, breathing harshly, not getting enough oxygen, trying to stay quiet, he could not understand this all anymore. With the upmost distress, he realised the feeling had not gone away, the bloating had not dissipated, even after all he did, and that made the tears continue. Fingernails digging into his skull, a frustrated, distraught mix of a screech and yell escaped through clenched teeth.

_Why could he not stop?_

—•—•—

Introduction over, as it were. The character's name was not said because, to be honest, I am still debating what character to use. I thought to let the readers decide, if it were interesting enough to them. If not, then oh well, it will remain a mystery. Review and all, it would be appreciated immensely.


	2. Carmine

A/N: An update, how about that. It is said that one ought to write based on situations they experience, so as to understand more thoroughly what exactly is being written. I feel rather saddened that this chapter is one of those cases, as this occurred when I was out in an attempt to get together with family to celebrate Father's Day, with only a few tweaks here and there to the situation so it can be applied to this story. I can only hope that the man is alright now, as no one has yet to bell me to inform me of his condition. I wrote this when I was still all in a tizzy; to be honest, I am posting this as a chapter, I surmise, only to come to terms that this actually happened before me. It may seem a bit silly to some, but writing is my main outlet and way to calm myself. So, that is that.

Warnings: Gruesome(?) scenes, blood, I believe that is it.

—•—•—

... What just happened?

Blood…

Blood, blood, blood…

Blood _everywhere._

'Blood on my hands... _my_ hands…'

**« They always have blood. »**

Always did they have that sanguine substance… they were never clean.

One moment, he was standing by the male mounted on the bike. They had ended their conversation because the man had to go; he had to finish his cycling before doing his errands. He gave him a wave with his free hand, sunflower occupying its partner before he turned to the one whom invited him out, just about ready to start a conversation.

Then it happened.

That feeling he had felt earlier was not the need to throw up, no. With the tires screeching angrily against the pavement, with the polluted air being tainted with even more smoke from said angry screeching tires, with the man making the turn, with that dreadful feeling reaching its peak, he realised in horror what was about to occur.

"Wait!"

The warning shouted out had more than a hint of panic, hysteria causing his voice to crack and the word was accentuated heavily; he would say it was because he had not shouted in such a long time more than because he was now feeling terrible that he could not stop it. His hand was outstretched in a desperate attempt to grab the man and pull him back, but he was too far.

Too late.

_**« Again. »**_

No, this time was different.

Contact was made, windshield littered with hundreds of unfixable cracks as the male was hurled into the air. His bike flipped in the air a few times—plastic caps came loose; a rather trivial matter, but he could see all of it, much to his dismay—along with him before he met the pavement, body making a loud thud, yet flopping as uselessly as a rag doll.

He heard a protest from the one that he was currently with, but paid no mind to it. Actually, he had not even noticed he began to run towards the man whilst he was still about to land. The risk of getting hit as well had not passed his mind. All that was heard was the loud, pained groans as the man squirmed about as much as he could, trying to form at least that one simple word of "help."

Why did this happen?

Should he have not let him go?

**« How stupid of you. Just like before. »**

Ah...

**« Always the same foolish mistakes. You must be besides yourself with shame. »**

Always...

... No, this time was different.

Knees hitting pavement—they cracked from the suddenness and force they were abused with, but he promptly shoved that aside—and sunglasses ripped off, thrown beside himself, distressed eyes examined the man quickly. He could hear other footsteps and they bothered him. They were only crowding, why could he not hear them calling an ambulance?

"Call the paramedics!"

Moments later he heard calls and his coat was unbuttoned hastily, shirt underneath shown. A pocketknife pulled out along with something inside his bag, the knife stabbed into his shirt and he ripped a piece of it off. The moans below from him caught his attention and he met the other's eyes, trying to reassure him with a smile.

"You'll be okay."

"_Don't worry. You'll be okay."_

A stab of pain to his temple.

"This will hurt, but it'll help."

"_This might hurt a bit, but I need to stop the bleeding."_

The pain intensified.

"Here, hold onto my thigh."

"_Just squeeze my arm if it's too much."_

This time was different.

It had to be.

Please...

Please, please, please...

Please, powers above…

This time… was different.

Sanitizer squirted onto the ripped piece of cloth, the voices were irritating, distractions that were not needed. Another voice came loudest that bothered the most and he did his best to push it away, cleaning the profoundly bleeding wounds on his exposed legs. How fast was the car even going when he was hit, to cause this bleeding? A quick glance to the windshield and he looked away; he did not want to stare long enough to tell if there was blood on it or not. He felt the squeezes to his thighs, but they did not matter. The gravel inside the pink flesh was gotten rid of, but the bleeding would not stop, it was staining his hands.

All over again...

Again and again and again and _again_…

No, this time was different.

"You! Come over here!"

A random woman that had been directing everyone to take a different lane came to him, not even questioning when he pointed to the leg he just cleaned and putting pressure on it, using another strip of his shirt that he had ripped off. What did it matter that the one helping looked quite a deals younger than all the others around him; when troubling situations occurred, age was of no importance, so long as one was helping. Of course, it would be something interesting if they truly knew how old he was. When a colourful something was offered, he looked up and saw another female offering him a shirt, bag in her hand likely full of other clothes.

"Here, dear."

"Thank you."

It was so rushed, all of it. A quick thanks, ripped cloth, cleaning, others coming to help put pressure to it. There was another man knelt down beside him and he was checking something, maybe he was experienced with these incidents as well; it hardly matter to him so long as he was helping and not in his way. His breath kept lodging in his throat, his stomach felt like emptying the nothing that was in it, making time feel like it was going slow.

Too slow, why were they not coming yet?

If it was not in time...

No, this time was different.

"Keep looking at me, don't take your eyes off me."

"_Just stay awake."_

They had to come.

This time was different.

His head hurt, it hurt so much. He wanted to press his fingers to his temples, as he always did to get it to go away momentarily. However, this man took priority and he would not want to smear the blood on his hands.

"I'm going to clean away the blood around your head, okay?"

"O-okay…"

A different response.

"_Let me clean your head. I'll be gentle."_

"_D-don't let go of my hand… please..."_

Since he did not...

No, this time was different.

The blood was carefully wiped away from near the wound, but it itself was not touched. He did not have much experience with that, his knowledge of medical practice only went so far, a good deal of it being lost from his own accident years back. And, whenever he had to deal with his own wounds, he did not have to be as careful as with a human, which hindered him currently a great deal.

Sirens wailing in the distance, they came closer and closer and closer and closer and closer until they finally arrived. But now was an unfortunate time as his hearing started to fade out in, replaced with a shrill ringing, bits of the clamour around him only coming through choppily. Fingers twitching as he saw the crimson coat on them, he held the man's hand.

"You'll be okay."

Again and again and again and again and again those words were said, to reassure that which he was not even sure of.

"_You'll be alright."_

Yet, that time…

No, this time was different.

Those flashes of pain kept getting worse the longer he kept eye contact with the man, the longer he held the hand that felt as though it was slipping from his because of the blood.

"_Please…"_

"_I'm scared, don't—"_

"_Stay with— "_

"_It feels...—"_

He could not let it happen again.

He could not stand that failure…

Failing again and again and again and again and _again_...

No, this time was different.

When the paramedics requested him to move away, he gave the hand one last squeeze and gave that same promise.

"You'll be okay."

"_Trust me. You'll be okay."_

He would leave out the first part, for that might be a violation of trust and if what happened before happened again...

No, no…

No, no, no.

This time was different.

Moving away, he dismissed the words of praise around him. For what was it? Being brave, being helpful, being some foolish thing that any human being should be?

Useless.

_«And you are—»_

'Shut up!'

His eyes went down to his hands, seeing all the blood on them and in other areas that it smeared on in his haste.

Blood…

Blood, blood, blood...

Blood _everywhere_...

It was always on his hands.

Always, always, always, always...

_Always._

The offer from before to go to eat was knocked out of his mind the moment the accident occurred yet suddenly came back. But he was not hungry, especially not now. His fingers jerked however they could and he had to go, he had to leave. His gaze met the one whom was driving the car, eyes impassive and hard. He should have said something, but he refrained out of worry that he would not be able to control himself. The one with him was called over and hurriedly, he ran off before anyone could stop him.

**«Always running.»**

No…

Last time, he stayed.

He stayed and…

No.

No, no, no.

_No._

This time was different.

He simply kept telling himself that.

This time was different.

Because otherwise, there would be more blood on his hands.

_**This time was different.**_

—•—•—

That is the end of that. I am still debating on who to use as the main character and whether or not to make this an alternative universe with them as only humans or as their nation selves; the readers can help with that, yes? It would be appreciated. And do not let the sunflower throw off your choice and immediately think to a certain Russian; I do know Ivan is most associated with them, but it just happened to be the flower held; coincidence, as it were. Reviews would be loved.


	3. Prevarication

Random update is random, yes? Mm, maybe it is, especially since this is not one of the more popular stories I have up, haha. But, it is still an update and those are always nice. I will be updating Tendrils of Time soon, I promise I will. Most of the next chapter is typed out, it is just school and personal problems have been taking priority and all.

I still have not entirely decided who the main character, or characters, will be. Maybe they will change from chapter to chapter and it will somehow tie up neatly at the end, haha. But, it would always be nice to get feedback on who you, as the reader, might think it would be. Any feedback is nice, actually, so long as it is not downright bashing.

If there are any errors, feel free to tell me so I can correct them.

I hope you enjoy reading, even if it is all pretty depressing. I seem to make everything angst-ridden.

Warnings: Angst, morbidness/disturbing scenes(?)

—•—•—

pre·var·i·ca·tion [prih-var-i-key-shuhn]  
**_noun_**  
1. the act of prevaricating, or lying  
2. a false or deliberate misstatement; lie

—•—•—

_Why?_

Why was this just the same as always?

Why was this reoccurring theme in his life?

Why was this happening to him?

An anguished series of cries and tears and choked, garbled sounds of agony, gloved fingertips dragging along his skull before the cries turned into a hysterical mix of shrieks and shouts and his hands met any and everything that they possibly could. Along the time of when this all blurred together, he had no idea. No, all he could think of was the burning, the suffocating, the horrid tension in his chest, ribcage feeling like it was pressing in and compressing his heart, his lungs.

What was breathing?

Breathing was so far away, all that was coming from him were forced wheezing rasps of exhales and sputtered pathetic excuses of inhales. And oh, gods, what was this need, this unexplainable desire, this unrestrained _laughter._

Why was he laughing?

Gods above, _why._

It was so amusing, so downright _hilarious_ how he thought things might have been changing, how things might have been looking up, how his life might actually have had something good in it.

Near animalistic chokes rang from his throat as he cackled and croaked out the off pitch laughter, a no doubt irritating noise were someone to hear it any louder and consistently, gasps mixing in with it all as his hands grasped fistfuls of his hair and tugged in every which way, carmine smearing onto it along with a few other spots from the injuries he sported.

It was just so bloody _funny._

He could be so illogical, so blinded by the desire to just have someone close, that he overlooked the most important thing of all.

He would _never_ have anything good in life.

A broken mirror, a shattered vase, ripped maps and calendars and flags torn down and tossed asunder, but it was not enough to placate this need to simply _destroy_ all around him. If he did, maybe then it could match his thoughts, the feelings he had no idea what to call, he could bring out what it was he felt and maybe, just maybe, understand that chaotically scattered things called his emotions.

Let everything around him match what he felt.

And so the room was destroyed, everything around him tossed and torn, broken and some beyond repair. The tears never stopped, the anguished yells bouncing off the walls, mirror shards digging into his gloves and some even piercing through the thick material to his flesh.

But what did it matter?

**« You knew it was going to happen. »**

Shoulders rising and falling as his chest heaved spasmodically, eyes looking about the destruction and disorderly state of the room, the now unorthodox area was a horribly bothersome thing.

And yet… he did not care.

There was an itching inside him, raking along his muscles and nerves the longer he stared at the mess, making the difficult time breathing even more so now. It would be so triggering, at any other time. But now all he could do was stare and stare and stare.

_He could not care._

Amongst all that he decimated, all that had happened with the other, just from that one thing others might see as minor, something inside him had broken, cracked, shrivelled up and simply died.

**« Why would you even hope? »**

Why…

Because he said it was different.

He said it would change, that he would change it.

He said to trust in him...

And just once, he did want to believe that, he did want to believe the other and willingly did so. It was a risky thing to do, he knew, but he was tired of being so distrustful, tired of being so paranoid, so bitter, so frequently having to keep to himself and having no one to talk to.

He was so tired of being _alone._

And, if only for a while, he no longer was.

But it was short-lived.

How he wanted it to still be the same, but it could no longer be so, not when this had happened, not when he had already stepped passed the walls he built up to protect himself, only to get harmed when doing so. Not when it was broken and the other knew how hard it was to even stay so precariously held together to begin with, how it took so long and every ounce of his being to manage to do it.

He could not do it again.

There was only so much he could take anymore.

There was only so much he _wanted_ to take anymore.

It could only be tolerated for a certain amount of time and it already felt too long. He had enough, despite what others thought; it was too much for him and oh, how he suffered. They never saw it because he could not show it, he was too proud to do so, it integrated so very intimately with his personality, no one truly questioned why he acted how he did.

No, they merely ostracised him.

They called him odd.

They called him unstable.

They called him antisocial.

They called him a cruel monster.

And maybe… they were right.

Too many times was he been hurt by others, too many times had misery come his way because of others, too many times did he have to pick himself up on his own and find no one was there.

Always… alone...

So, what else could he do, but close himself off?

It was his best bet of making it out even remotely alive, even if he seemed dead in every other aspect, this warped and distrustful monstrosity of a way of living.

But he tried to change for the other.

He tried to open up, to talk, to do that which he thought was impossible for him, only for it to come back and lash him right in the face. There was so much he held back, to try and keep the other smiling. He hid the monster deep inside himself, feeling absolutely horrid every time it reared its vile head out when he slipped up.

He tried his best, to be the one the other deserved.

But what good was it, when the monster would always be around?

A wretched existence was deep within him, corrupting all within its reach, polluting the air around it just with its mere presence. All the unappealing parts of a personality—jealousy, greed, possessiveness, obsessiveness, controlling, manipulative, hatefulness, bitterness and many more—all meshed together to form it, his nature.

And that had caused it all.

Perhaps it was the obsessiveness and jealousy with the possessiveness and bitterness laced in. Or the jealousy and possessiveness with hatefulness sprinkled atop it.

Either way, it was a rancid thing.

**« It was **_**you**_**. »**

He was such a disgusting being.

As such, he had caused this all and that notion caused the laughter to start up again, sound hoarse and strained amongst his sobs. His legs finally gave out, knees burning from how they scraped against the carpet and the other items scattered about. Groan creaking out from him before the sorrow doused cries started up again, he rocked side to side, head lowering and gloved appendages scraping against his scalp until he reached the back of his neck. There, his fingers laced together and he wondered if he might be able to just… _snap_ his neck and stop this all, if only for a little bit.

He just wanted to _live._

He just wanted to _breathe._

He just wanted… _someone._

He wanted someone for himself, that he could hold, that he could embrace when he pleased, that he could talk to freely, that he could show his affection to be it by form of small trinkets and gifts, or hugs and kisses, at any time he wanted to.

He wanted someone to love.

He wanted someone to trust.

He wanted someone… to simply help him _heal_.

To try and repair his broken mentality, to teach him what it was like to be cared for purely, to show him that he could be loved, even with that dark monster lurking inside him and being such a huge part of his nature because it was what he grew up knowing.

To show him, he could be saved.

And he knew that he did not deserve it because he would somehow ruin it. With the monster being one in the same with him, his possessiveness and obsessiveness would ruin it all; he knew his nature would ruin it all because he just wanted someone all for himself and so many things could go wrong with those thoughts, he would be restricting the other far too much because of his irrational jealousy and desire to be the only person the other cared for.

All because of his selfishness.

All because he could not control it.

All because—if he could perhaps understand what it was and accept it, rather than dismiss what he was told by that professional and at least consider it—he was afraid.

He was afraid of being left again, of losing the other to someone else, even if said someone was just a friend, of feeling like he was not important to the other when they meant the world to him, of accidentally overstepping boundaries, of taking advantage and manipulating of the other without meaning to.

He was afraid of corrupting them.

Though pain was a part of his life just as much as breathing was, it seemed, and that was all he felt now.

The pain should stop.

Maybe…

Just maybe…

It would stop if he simply ceased… breathing...

Thus he did.

It burnt every part of his being, cheeks feeling as if they were too close to a fire. His hands dug into his skin as much as they could and he shook his head, as if it would do anything to change it. Heart racing, pounding in his ears, every atom of his was telling him to just take in oxygen.

Not once did he.

It was to be expected, the faintness, the sudden spots in his vision, the urge to regurgitate, but it all ended soon. Body slumping, hitting the side of a bedpost, it was all over, at least for now.

...

**Bzzzzt.**

**Bzzzzt.**

**Bzzzzt.**

Ever so slowly, eyelids peeled open, hand searching blindly, a cold plastic that was the source of the vibrations was caught and turned off. He was so sure that the mobile phone was broken when he threw it and now it had disrupted his momentary peace.

That peace...

Lagging some in his reactions, a series of coughs started up as he pushed himself up to sit.

**Beep.**

A sudden reaction to the noise as he picked up the other device, the tears started up again and dripped down his cheeks because it was _them_ and all he could think about was what the other did, skin feeling pulled taut from the previous substance drying up on them.

**How are you?**

How was he?

He felt… horrible.

He felt… like dying.

He felt… devastated.

He felt… so very… _betrayed._

He wanted to keep crying, give up, stop breathing, simply rip his heart out to stop the pain in his chest.

Gloves being removed to reply, tears obscured his vision and he had to sniff more than once and rub at his eyes with his sleeve as he coughed and let a few noises escape him. He typed out a reply and sent it, simply dropping the device and himself to the carpeted floor, not moving a muscle after and letting the tears fall freely whichever manner they pleased.

_**I feel fine.**_

—•—•—

Another rather depressing chapter over, haha.

Well, there really are not many end note I can put on here, I think. If you would, please, review and favourite and all that good stuff, I would appreciate it immensely.


End file.
